Can you lament the loss
Of art
With me?
That all this--
Every part,
Has to be
Broken
Deconstructed
Probed
For its ichorus juice
And mixed up into a poultice
Of parlor trick
mirrored upon our asphalt
As oil slick
Lament this loss of art
When the meter ***** off
To the picture of rhyme
And the Earth is a ball
Floating backwards in time
As brute animals stare
in constellation
At a star-sketched sky.
It was enough for artists to have to constrain
Themselves to knowledge of the natural grain
Of syntax and measure
In which we design
Our lives,
And passed ourselves on
To the grief of our daughters
With such failure of art
Even they would not bother.
No hope for this,
This is but the status
of dead poets
And yet we do not weep.
No need, we are inspired by the sickly
The eminent decay
She is the muse of our words
The sadist of all our play
Just as when our fathers sought to rebuild their dreams,
Our kin are excited, delighted by obscene
Obscurity,
and isolation of the penitent mind,
To commit societal acts
Of the dastardly kind
I am but a Reed, a float on the stream
I am but delicate-phrased
Scaffolding - -
And even me,
With all my tender lonely
Body,
Cannot in good conscience save
Anybody.
Our world of dreams is but a bunch of rows,
With even the picket posts
Torn from their ancient holes--
This is the fate of the ants of the earth
The dust of the stuff,
The fit of this pit,
Those that have no hope for the metere
Above
The senseless rhyme
Of the lost divine
Limitless space,
The eminent decay,
Atomic malfeasance
And interaction, risqué
Even couplets are ******* in this
Autonomous age,
Even the coming together
Of words on a page
In anything more than subjective display,
This word seeks not to know
Of this limitless race
To the end of it all,
To the flip of the page,
To the top of the spire,
And away from the mire
Enough!.
Too caught
in the wrong fuHawking
Black hole.
